


Day By Day (I'm Falling More In Love With You)

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky has a dog, M/M, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2486750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky have been in love with each other for, like, ever. In a new, modern setting where being gay is acceptable, it should be easy for them to come to terms with their feelings for each other; it's not.</p>
<p>It takes a dog, some sick dance moves, a handful of nosy superheroes, and enough sexual tension to kill a man to finally get them out of the 40s and into the 21st century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Operation Zebra

Thor noticed it first. Or maybe he was just the only one with big enough balls to admit that it was happening. Either way, he technically set all this in motion, so he should either get an award or a good ass-kicking.

It started in the Stark Tower on a Friday evening with Steve, Bucky, Sam, Natasha, Darcy, Jane, and Thor having martinis and light conversation at Tony’s bar. The conversation was a fairly quiet one, since only four of the interlocutors had the capacity to get drunk.

 By this point, all the Avengers were living in the Tower, as the events in D.C. proved that having the superheroes in close proximity to each other was the best way to ensure they would all actually show up in the case of an international emergency. They weren’t always in the tower, of course, as they each had their own things to do and missions to carry out. Still, they were around often enough that Tony started referring to it as the ‘superhero sorority house.’ The name didn’t really stick, thank god. 

With several renovations to his prosthetic arm, and two months of rehab and recovery under his belt, Bucky was regaining his old memories and starting to act somewhat human. He didn’t throw or smash things anymore, so that was progress.

 Anyway, on this Friday night, Clint was sitting on the couch watching mythbusters, since the conversation at the bar was nothing of immediate interest to him. Watching two men with sick moustaches blow things up in the name science was much more relevant to his interests.

 He was trying to mind his own business. He really was. He was only sort of eavesdropping on their conversation when Thor bounded over to the couch and flung himself onto it with force enough to destroy it, had Tony not reinforced everything in the tower and reinforced it again. 

“Clint!” He exclaims, with as much enthusiasm as always.

 “Hey, buddy,” Clint replies, still focused on the TV.

“My friend, how are you?” Thor beams.

 “I’m okay.” He glances over at him. “How about you?”

 “I was just reflecting on what a compatible pair Steven and James are.” He nods and smiles, somewhat proudly. “They suit each other well.”

 “Wait.” Clint looks over at him. “Steve and Bucky?” Thor nods in reply, still smiling. Now he has Clint’s attention. “You mean like a couple?”

 “Yes.” Thor looks confused. “What else would I mean?”

 “Thor,” Clint lowers his voice. “Steve and Bucky aren’t a couple.”

 He looks even more confused and furrows his brow. “They’re not?”

 Before Clint has a chance to respond, Darcy roams over to the couch and interrupts their conversation. “Thor, Jane wants you,” she says, absently, holding a colorful drink in her right hand and looking at her phone screen which she holds in the left.

 Thor gives a nod to Clint before getting up and obediently walking back to the bar.

 “Sup,” Darcy greets, putting her phone in her pocket and flopping down on the couch.

 “Sup,” Clint replies.

 “What were you homos talking about?” She asks as she plays with the straw in her drink.

 Clint hums in way of reply, then says, “Speaking of homos, Thor thought Steve and Bucky were gay." He smirks. "For each other.”

 “I totally thought that too, at first!" She looks back to the bar where Steve and Bucky are sitting. Clint glances back, too. “I mean, they would be super cute together. It’s too bad they can’t have kids. Think how perfect they would be… They’d have beautiful hair and they’d be all muscley…” She takes another sip, lost in thought for a moment, before looking back to Clint. “We should totally make that happen.”

 “We should genetically mutate their superchildren? That’s not really my area. Talk to Tony.”

 “No!” She laughs. “I mean, we should, like, get them together.” Clint shoots her a skeptical glance. “Come on," she persists, "they’re totally in love with each other! It’ll be fun.”

 “First of all, no,” he says, firmly, “And secondly, no.”

 "Do it for America, Clint!”

 “No.”

 “Fine.” She grabs his phone off the coffee table and starts pressing buttons. “You know, you really need to get a passcode or something on this thing.”

 “What are you doing?” He asks, mildy.

 “Putting my number in your phone for when you realize they’re perfect for each other and decide to join Operation Stucky.”

 “Too obvious of a codename,” he tells her. “If you’re going for secrecy you need something more subtle.”

 “Fine. How about Operation ‘Zebra’?”

 “Completely terrible."

 “Well, are you in?”

 “Operation Zebra? Really? I don’t even think you tried at all.”

 “Don’t be rude,” Darcy chides, defensively. “I couldn’t think of anything in the moment like that.”

 “It’s not even subtle.” He shakes his head in mock disapproval.

 Darcy rolls her eyes. “Are you gonna help me or not?”

 He looks back to the TV. “I’ll think about it.”

She presses a few more buttons on his phone before setting it back down. “Your new passcode is ‘Zebra.’” She gets up from the couch and calls “You’re welcome” as she goes back to the bar.

 

* * *

 

By 1:00am everyone had dispersed into their own rooms or, in the case of Darcy, Thor, and Jane, had gone home.

Clint stays up most of the night watching mythbusters reruns. The more he thinks about Operation Zebra -- God, that’s a terrible name -- the more he likes the idea of it. Darcy was right: Steve and Bucky are pretty perfect for each other.

And who doesn’t love intervening in people’s personal lives?

Natasha wouldn't approve, but what she doesn’t know won’t kill her… She could kill Clint, though, and she probably would if she ever found out about the whole thing.

He sighs, grabs his phone, and flips through his contacts. He doesn’t find anyone under the name ‘Darcy’ but there is someone named ‘The Raddest Bitch Ever.’ He sends a text to the number.

  _[text 4:08 AM] Clint: i’m in._

_[text 4:15 AM] The Raddest Bitch Ever: dude it’s 4 in the morning wtf_

_[text 4:16 AM] Clint: hawks are nocturnal._

_[text 4:16 AM] The Raddest Bitch Ever: no theyre not_

_[text 4:17 AM] Clint: whatever. are we gonna do this or not??_

_[text 4:19 AM] The Raddest Bitch Ever: yes but sleep is first. i’ll thinkg of a clever plan tomorrow that will blwo ur mind_

_[text 4:19 AM] The Raddest Bitch Ever: but now sleep. that means u_

_[text 4:20 AM] Clint: k._

* * *

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't find Bucky. Steve found Bucky.

 After the discovery of Hydra inside  S.H.I.E.L.D., it’s followers scattered in all different directions trying to protect themselves. This left Bucky with no one to tell him what to do. No missions; no targets; no orders of any kind. Bucky didn’t know how to think for himself. He needed orders. Without them, he was just another stray on the streets of D.C.; he didn’t know what to do or where to go. 

So he ran. S.H.I.E.L.D. -- or what was left of it -- was after him and he didn’t know why, but he knew he needed to run. Every instinct told him that’s what he should do. That became his mission. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat. He jumped from one hideout to another and waited for the black cars to show up, -- if they even got that close -- and then he was gone, out the window, down an alleyway, whatever it took. They never saw him go and they never found him.

For two weeks he ran, until one night, he didn’t:

He's sitting on the roof of an abandoned apartment building, waiting. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, but he knows he's waiting for something. For someone, maybe.

He hears a vehicle pull up, but it’s different this time. Instead of a fleet of armored cars, there’s just one. By the sound of the engine it’s an old, compact car, hardly the type of machine a government agency like S.H.I.E.L.D. would employ. 

He peers over the side of the building and sees he's right; it is a small car with only one passenger, whom he recognizes immediately as the man he’d met on the bridge. 

Bucky knows him. Or he remembers knowing him. He doesn’t know the man's name or who he is or was, but he knows he had been important to him back when he was Bucky, before he became the Winter Soldier.

He doesn’t remember much of his past except a few bits and pieces. He remembers that the man was smaller once. He remembers having to look down at him a lot because he was so small. Bucky remembers looking down at a mess of blonde hair, stained by blood, as he picked him up out of an alleyway after a fight. He remembers taking care of the boy, leaning over his bed and looking down at his frail figure, too sick to even sit up.

Until one day, Bucky was the one who had to look up.

He remembers lying on a hard bed in a dark room. The pain he felt was close to unbearable, but then the boy was standing over him and he was bigger. “Steve,” he remembers saying.

 _Steve._ That’s his name. Steve.

Steve saved him that day, but Bucky couldn’t do the same for Steve. Bucky couldn’t save his friend from what they did to him, the ways they changed him, everything they took away from him. He’s displaced from the feeling now but he remembers being sad about it at the time.

He remembers looking up at Steve so many times and wondering why anyone would ever have wanted to change him.

The last thing he ever did, before Hydra took him, was look up at Steve, as he fell down, down, down into the piercing river below.

But those aren’t the only things that make Steve important. There’s something else. He remembers telling himself again and again, _‘don’t think it, don’t say it.’_  

_Whatever you do, don't say it._

That's the most important thing to remember about Steve. Take care of him, and don’t tell him. Never tell him.

He watches as Steve gets out of his car and disappears into the apartment building. Bucky calculates that it would take him about three minutes to get up the stairs and to the roof. That’s more than enough time for Bucky to get away. 

He stands up, with every intention of jumping from the roof and disappearing into the dark avenue, but he doesn't. It's as if his feet are affixed to the ground and he finds he can't move.

The two parts of him --  the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes, the assassin and the hero -- are at war.  His memories tell him he can trust Steve, but his logic says otherwise. He decides to follow his instinct, which tells him to stay. All parts of him can agree that he has nothing to lose if he does.

He stands on the rooftop, feeling helpless and vulnerable, and he waits. It's not long until he hears Steve open up the hatchway and pull himself up onto the roof. Bucky turns around slowly and looks at Steve, who stares back.

They stay that way for a few moments before Steve finally speaks up. “Bucky,” he murmurs and his voice is quiet, hopeful, as if scared Bucky will attack or runaway. Steve is unarmed, he notices.

Bucky feels like he should say something, to fill up over 70 years of silence, but the words don’t come to his throat and he doesn’t make them.

“Bucky,” Steve says again, this time a little louder, a little more confident, “It’s -- It’s me. It’s St--” He stops himself when he realizes Bucky probably doesn’t know who he is. “I’m Steve.” He straightens his posture and swallows, visibly nervous.

“I know who you are,” Bucky rasps, after a pause.

Steve looks surprised. “You -- You do?”

Bucky nods slowly. “You’re Steve.”

He nods back. “Yes.” He swallows again. Bucky thinks he may be holding back tears. “Yes, I’m Steve.”

“And I’m…” Bucky trails off, feeling unsure.

“Bucky,” Steve says, slowly, filling in for him.

Bucky nods his head, struggling to keep up the communication. He’s not used to normal conversation. “I was,” he pauses. “Bucky.” 

Steve gulps. “You still are.”

“I’m not.”

Steve nods. “Okay.” He exhales. “That’s okay. How -- How much do you remember?”

Bucky doesn’t want to talk about that yet. He pushes past the question and presents his own: “Have you come to take me away?”

“I’ve come as a friend." He can tell Steve is tense, upset. "Bucky, we can help you.”

Bucky flinches and feels panic, rising in his chest. “They said that, too," he tells him.

Bucky can’t miss the look of complete dejection that passes over Steve’s face when he says that. “They said I would be okay, but they made me forget. I --” He stops, unsure if he should say what he wants. He was punished for that kind of thing before. “I don’t want to forget again,” he strangles out, hoping Steve will understand. “Please. I know you.”

Bucky may not have the best grasp of human emotion, but Steve is showing an intense amount of it on his face and in his posture. He looks shattered and small, like some part of him is broken inside. For the first time in a long time, Bucky feels a surge of sentiment. He wants to take that sad, broken part of Steve and replace it with something better, something whole, but he knows he can’t do that. A broken thing can’t fix another broken thing. That stands to reason. Maybe if he does what Steve wants, then Steve will be happy again. He can’t imagine why anyone would care about his well-being but it seems clear enough that this man does.

“Bucky,” Steve chokes out, “no one’s going to do anything to you that you don’t want them to do. I promise.” Bucky nods, slowly, as if he understands, but he doesn’t. “Will you come with me?” Steve asks.

He can’t imagine what S.H.I.E.L.D. has planned for him. Maybe they’ll give him new missions. That would be good. He wants to make sure of one thing. The one thing he knows he doesn’t want. “No one will make me forget?”

Steve swallows again and his eyes are slightly teary, “Of course not. We’ll help you remember.” Steve hesitantly takes a step closer. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Bucky can't imagine what Steve means by that, but it sounds like it could be a good thing. Bucky nods in reply; he finds that’s the easiest way to communicate.

“You’ll come?” Steve asks, hopefully.

Bucky nods again. Steve breaks into a relieved smile and Bucky likes that. He likes making Steve smile.

 _Remember that,_ he tells himself.

 

* * *

 

_[TWO MONTHS AND A HAIRCUT LATER]_

 

Bucky wakes up, slowly, groggily, -- a luxury he is starting to get used to --  and wipes the sleep out of his eyes. He gets dressed equally as slow and pads down the hallway, into the small kitchen which Tony had installed for the convenience of the Avengers.

Bucky’s hair is shorter than it had been before, but it’s still shaggy and a little bedraggled. He pushes a strand of it out of his eyes and joins Sam and Clint at the bar.

Steve is digging around in a cabinet. “Want some cereal, Buck?”

Bucky shakes his head and mumbles, “No, thanks.” His stomach is empty, but he doesn’t feel like eating.

Steve gives him a small, understanding, smile and instead tosses him a granola bar. Bucky takes it and tries to remove the wrapper, but his robotic, prosthetic fingers are clumsy and can’t accomplish the task. 

“I got you,” Clint says, reaching over. Bucky lets him take the bar out of his hands and watches as he adeptly peels back the wrapper and hands it back. 

“Thanks,” Bucky mutters, and takes a tentative bite. Its like sawdust in his mouth and he struggles to swallow it. When he does, it feels heavy and thick going down. His stomach protests so he puts the bar back on the counter and doesn't touch it again.

Steve silently sets a glass of cranberry juice in front of him. Bucky chugs it gratefully, trying to wash the unpleasant sensations away.

Sam and Clint are in the middle of an argument about which bird is superior: the hawk or the falcon. Steve, having poured himself a bowl of cereal, sets the bowl on the counter adjoined to the buffet and leans one hand on the surface, amiably spectating the conversation from across the counter. He shoots Bucky a smile.

Bucky smiles back and glances at him. He can't help but notice how nice Steve looks in the well-fitting muscle shirt. He makes himself look away.

 _Don't think it,_ he reminds himself. _Don't say it._ He's still unsure what that means, but he always seems to know when its relevant.

He sits with both hands on the bar, his body rigid, his mind trying to think of something he can occupy himself with. He knows it should be easy to think of something, that _normal people_ don’t think have these kinds of problems.

“Hey, Bucky,”  Sam speaks up, “Clint recorded some pretty sick _mythbuster_ episodes last night, if you wanna check those out.” Without waiting for an answer, Sam gets up from the bar and walks over to the sitting area.

Bucky grabs his glass and obediently follows him to the couch. Sam puts on the episode and Bucky allows himself to be pleasantly distracted.

 

* * *

 

With Sam and Bucky on the couch watching _mythbusters,_ Clint and Steve are the only ones still at the bar.

Clint sees this as the perfect opportunity to get a start on Operation Zebra.

“So,” Clint clears his throat, “Uh, sorry about Thor yesterday. You know how he is. Hope it didn’t make things, you know... awkward.” He looks back at the couch where Bucky is sitting.

Steve gives him a look of confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Oh. He didn’t mention it?" Clint nonchalantly gets up, grabs his dishes, and crosses to the dishwater. "Huh. Nevermind, then.” He puts the dishes in the washer, shuts it and starts walking away, silently hoping Steve’s curiosity will get the best of him.

“Clint." Steve persists, “What are you talking about?”

Clint turns around and shrugs. “Nothing. It’s just,” he tries to say it as casually as possible, “he thought you and Bucky were a couple.”

The look of panic that flashes across Steve’s face is unmistakable.

Clint’s _Oh-Shit-I-Fucked-Up_ Alarm is going off inside his head.

“I mean, uh, it’s not a big deal or anything.” Clint shrugs again, trying to play it down. “He’s a weird guy. I wouldn’t think on it too much.” Steve doesn’t look any less disconcerted. “Seriously. It’s fine,” Clint assures him. He forces a smile. “Anyway,” he turns around and heads toward the elevator, trying to leave before he can say anything else he’ll regret. “I’m headed out.”

_[text 10:02 AM] Clint: hey check on steve_

_[text 10:02 AM] Clint: pls_

_[text 10:03 AM] The Other Bird Guy: y?_

_[text 10:03 AM] Clint: Idk he looked a little shaky_

_[text 10:04 AM] The Other Bird Guy: aight im on it._

 

* * *

  

Steve does his best to breathe deeply, trying to clear out the panic that’s setting in. There is, of course, nothing romantic between him and Bucky, but Thor had seen _something_.

 _Oh God._ He thinks to himself. _Oh god, oh god, oh god. Is it that obvious?_

He can’t imagine what would happen if anyone should decipher Steve’s feelings for Bucky. People were killed for that kind of thing in his day.

 _The world’s not like that anymore,_ he tells himself, but he can’t really believe it.

He doesn’t notice Sam walking up the bar. “Hey, man,” Sam says, “you alright?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. Yeah, Yeah. I’m good.”

It’s the furthest thing from the truth.

 

* * *

 

  _[text 10:14 AM] Clint: i don’t think the world’s ready for operation zebra._

_[text 10:18 AM] The Raddest Bitch Ever: aww. whyy?_

_[text 10:25 AM] Clint: I kinda brought it up with cap eariler and i thought he was gonna have 2 breathe into a paper bag._

_[text 10:27 AM] The Raddest Bitch Ever: that bad?_

_[text 10:33 AM] Clint: gotta love 40s homophobia!!!_

_[text 10:36 AM] The Raddest Bitch Ever: maybe that should be our first objective. get them in the 21st century_

_[text 10:42 AM] Clint: k but how?_

_[text 10:44 AM] The Raddest Bitch Ever: I have an idea… can i come over later?_

  

* * *

 

At  6:32 PM, Bucky is sitting on the carpet in the living/barroom playing solitaire. Natasha is napping on the couch next to Clint who is playing a fast-paced game on a tablet, while Tony and Bruce tinker with some kind of machine and talk quietly to each other about their progress.

Jarvis interrupts their silence. “Sir, Ms. Lewis is requesting access to this floor. She has two guests with her.”

Tony looks around the room. “Who invited her?”

“I did.” Clint looks up. “Did I forget to mention that?”

Tony sighs. “Let her up, Jarvis.”

“Right away, sir.”

Bucky looks down at his clothes: a white tank top and sweatpants. “I’m, uh, not really dressed for company.”

Tony waves his hand dismissively.

“It’ll be fine,” Bruce assures him.

A few moments later, the elevator opens up and Darcy emerges, followed by two men. “Sup, guys,” she chirps, and joins them on the couch, gesturing for her friends to do the same.

They all sit. It’s a little cramped, so Natasha sits up to make room.

Darcy pulls a bottle of red wine out of a brown paper sack which was underneath her arm. “Do superheroes even drink wine? Or do you guys always go for the heavy stuff?”

“You gonna introduce us to your friends?” Clint inquires.

“Oh. Right. This is Gavin,” she gestures to one of them, who waves his hand and says hey, “and this is his boyfriend, Ash.”

Bucky hears the word ‘boyfriend’ and immediately feels very, very confused. They were… a couple? He has trouble processing this.

“Wait,” he says, slowly, trying to decide whether this question is socially acceptable or not. “You said… boyfriend?”

Nat shoots an apologetic look towards Ash and Gavin and says “Sorry, he’s uh --” Gavin holds up his hand.

“It’s okay,” he smiles, “We work for S.H.I.E.L.D. We know about his, uh, past.”

“Bucky,” Bruce speaks up, slowly, tentatively, “uh, homosexuality is somewhat normal now… Is this the first you’re hearing of this?”

“No,” he replies, honestly. Alexis, his therapist, had mentioned it to him a few weeks back. “I just… I didn’t realize…” Uncomfortable with being in the spotlight, he trails off, and his mind drifts to Steve. _I just didn’t realize it truly is acceptable now._

Darcy, God bless her, doesn’t miss a beat and immediately suggests they all migrate to the bar and have some drinks. Bucky stands up with the rest of them, but excuses himself to his room by muttering “I should change clothes” and stealing off.

He takes the elevator down a floor to where the living quarters are and makes his way to his room. He closes the door behind him and sinks down against it.

It’s a lot to take in.

He thinks of numerous nights, back in his memories, when he would be in bed with a dame and feel... out of place. He remembers telling himself that being with lovely girls was what every man wanted, but he’d always felt like that wasn’t what he wanted.

All he’d ever really wanted was Steve.

_Don’t think it. Don’t say it. Don’t think it, don’t say it, don’t think it, don’t say it._

Then, suddenly, he remembers. He remembers the meaning of his resolve. His one rule. The one thing Steve must never know, the three words he must never say:

 _I_ and _love_ and _you_.

  



	2. Speed Dial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> Sorry this chapter is so short; it's been a really crazy week. This isn't where I had originally planned on ending the chapter, but this is the most I could get written in the little time I had, so I decided to go ahead and post it.
> 
> I'm about halfway through the next installment so I'll try to have that out to you guys in the next couple of days. :)
> 
> Stay chill!  
> -Indie

“Need a water break?” Steve teases, as he jogs alongside Sam. The air is brisk and chilly in Central Park, a reminder that winter is just around the corner.

“Need a walker, old man?” Sam quips in return, although he’s struggling to keep up.

Steve rolls his eyes. “The old man thing again? You can do better than that, Wilson.” 

“Is that shirt a toyota?" he asks, rhetorically, referring to Steve's tight fitting, under-armour shirt. "Because its --” he breathes heavily, “it looks like a -- I give up. I’m too tired for this shit, man. How ‘bout we call it a day?” 

Steve nods and they slow their pace to a light jog. After a few minutes, Steve feels his phone vibrating in his right pocket. He slows to a stop and takes it out. 

Call from Natasha Romanov. 

He answers it. “Hey.” 

“Hey, it’s me,” she drawls, “Where are you right now?” 

“Central Park. Is there a problem?” 

“No, no, everything’s fine.” She hesitates. “Its about Bucky. He disappeared into his room about thirty minutes ago and hasn’t come out. Nothing unusual, but he did seem a little upset… I think you should come talk to him.” 

He glances towards the tower, estimating the time it would take him to get there. “Give me seven minutes.” 

He hangs up and shoots Sam an apologetic look. 

“I take it we’re off for dinner,” Sam confirms. 

Steve nods. “Sorry. It’s Bucky.” He gestures behind him. “I gotta go.” 

Sam waves him off, still panting slightly. “You go on ahead, I’ll meet you there.” 

Thanks to the serum, he still has the energy to sprint, despite having already run for 45 minutes, so he wheels around and takes off in the direction of the Avengers Tower. Brightly colored signs flash past him as he runs swiftly down the sidewalk, dodging citizens clad in scarves and calling out ‘sorry!’ when he accidentally bumps into someone. 

He'd forgotten how crowded the New York streets are in the afternoon and arrives at the tower in about 8 minutes, due to this miscalculation. He breezes through the Tower lobby and takes the elevator labelled “Authorized Personnel Only” to the lodging floor.

The elevator moves swiftly upwards, but Steve still taps his foot impatiently, while quietly mourning the loss of elevator music. When he reaches his floor and the doors slide open, he sees Natasha standing in the hallway, waiting, her arms crossed. 

“You’re late,” she tells him, mocking disapproval. 

“A wizard is never late, nor is he early,” he quotes, proud of his new knowledge of pop culture. “He arrives precisely --” 

“Yeah,” Natasha interrupts, “Just because you can make a Lord of the Rings reference every five seconds doesn’t mean you should.” 

“To be fair, you kinda walked into that one,” he tells her as they start to walk down the hallway towards Bucky’s room. “He's still in there?” Steve inquires.

“Yup," she reports, solemnly. “No changes.” They stop in front of Bucky’s door. As Steve reaches for the doorknob, Natasha stops him by laying her hand on his forearm and giving it a firm squeeze. "Be patient with him," she advises, somewhat ominously. "He can't help it." 

Steve exhales. "I know," he replies, quietly. 

Nat gives his arm another squeeze before pulling her hand away, fingertips brushing across his skin as she does. She then turns on her heel and heads for the elevator. 

“Hey,” Steve calls after her. She turns around to face him. “Thanks. For looking after him, I mean.” 

She smiles and gives him a small, only-slightly-sarcastic salute, before turning around again and disappearing into the elevator.

After she's left, Steve takes another deep breath and knocks on the door. “Bucky?” He calls, softly. 

It takes a while for Bucky to respond, but when he does, his voice comes from somewhere very close to the door. 

“Go away," he growls. 

Steve’s stomach twists. Although his voice is slightly muffled, he can still recognize Bucky’s tone from when he was under Hydra’s influence: hostile, animalistic, withdrawn. The last thing Steve wants is for his friend to revert back to what he’d been before. He’d made too much progress to go back to that. 

“Bucky,” Steve tries again. “Talk to me.” 

“No,” comes the gruff reply. “No. I can’t.” His voice sounds tight, like each word is a struggle. 

There are a million things Steve wants to say but, out of fear of making things worse, he simply exhales and steps away from the door. Maybe Bucky would talk to someone else. 

“Jarvis,” he says, addressing the ceiling, “can you ask Natasha to come back up here? Please.” He then thinks   
better of that command. "Actually, scratch that. Never mind." He can't ask her to come back, not after she'd just left. She had obviously trusted him to deal with this.

_I don't need anyone to hold my hand,_ he tells himself. 

"Are you sure, sir?" Jarvis replies and Steve briefly wonders if reading minds is on Jarvis's long list of skill sets. 

"Yeah," he answers.

"I'm sure Ms. Romanov wouldn't mind --" 

Steve cuts him off. "Really, it's okay. I can handle this." 

_I can handle this._

He feels angry at himself for not knowing what to do. After two months of helping Bucky, he feels he should know what to do in situations like this. 

I should know Bucky better than anyone else. I should be able to help him. 

And yet, he feels tragically out of his depth. 

Even though he used to know Bucky like the back of his hand, Steve finds that lately he doesn’t even know where to begin with him. For the past two months, he’d spent almost every waking moment trying to help him, to encourage him, and to replace all those broken pieces, buried inside of Bucky like barbed shrapnel. Now, everything is twisted and backwards; when Steve is around him, there’s an inexplicable barrier lodged in the back of his throat and no matter what Steve does he can never seem to clear himself of this invisible obstruction which is becoming ever-present.

“Pardon me, sir,” Jarvis interjects, “But perhaps Ms. Vanguard would be most equipped to deal with this situation,” he suggests, referring to Alexis Vanguard, Bucky’s therapist. “Shall I call her for you, sir?” 

Steve shakes his head and gets out his phone. "Thanks, but I got this one." There’s one thing he can do at least, since Alexis had given him her number in case there should be an emergency. 

He calls her and she picks up on the second ring. "Alexis Vanguard." 

"Hello," he responds, in a businesslike manner. "This is Steve Rogers." 

"Hi, Steve," she replies, evenly, entirely unfazed that the world's most patriotic superhero is talking to her. "What can I do for you?" 

"I'm calling about Bucky. He's..." Steve glances at Bucky's door and takes another few steps away from it, "He's having some sort of relapse. I don't know how to help him." 

"It's okay," she assures him, and there's something so soothing about her voice that Steve can't help but relax, if only just a little, "That's why you've got me. Now, calmly tell me what's going on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to end this here because it's the only suitable stopping point of what I have written. Stay tuned for the next update, and as always you can find me on tumblr at fierynatasha.tumblr.com!


	3. Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I'll try to have the next one out within a week.

For the first month of his recovery, Bucky spent his time in a S.H.I.E.L.D. recovery center located a few miles outside of New York City. The place was essentially a rehab center for people with problems and needs that couldn’t be handled at your everyday hospital.

There were only a handful people he saw regularly during his time in the center. One was Steve, of course, and another was his nurse, Sarah, who had also been Steve’s nurse during his rehab.

Sarah was a quiet girl with dark, curly hair, creamy skin, and large hazel eyes that made her look perpetually frightened. At first, Bucky thought she was scared of him, but Steve said she always looked that way. He said she’d been through a lot of Bad Things in her life and she was, in a way, still recovering herself.

Sarah took good care of Bucky and never forced him to make conversation if he wasn’t feeling up to it. In fact, at first, she hardly talked to him at all, aside from the necessary check-up questions. She wasn’t a talkative girl and neither was Bucky, at this point, so they found they had little to talk about. Once he had enough awareness to ask her questions, however, she would answer his inquiries to the best of her ability. By the end of his stay, they’d had several conversations of average length and intelligence. Bucky liked her, but he didn't think he would miss her very much once he left. 

* * *

Another person he saw often was a man named Tony who worked mainly on his cybernetic arm. The minute Tony walked in, Bucky knew he recognized him from somewhere. It wasn’t until a few days later that he remembered a man named Howard Stark whom he had been… friends with, maybe. He didn’t remember much about Howard, but Sarah confirmed that Tony was, in fact, his son.

There was something about Tony that was appealing to Bucky. He’d been somewhat afraid of him at first, with his intimidating tools, large words, and fast manner of acting, but Bucky quickly warmed up to him. He wasn’t like the technicians at Hydra. He had soft hands and a gentle touch. When he did something that hurt, he always apologized and said something funny in an attempt to make Bucky laugh. That became Tony’s mission every time he was with him: to coax a laugh, or even a smile from him. Eventually, Bucky complied.

Tony made lots of renovations to Bucky’s arm. He removed any and all malware from it that Hydra could use to harm him or track down his location. He changed some of the mechanics in the arm so that it moved more smoothly and was more comfortable. He also engineered a shock-absorbing sleeve to go over it so that Bucky could use the metal arm in everyday life without the fear of harming people or property.

The sleeve was rather ingenious: Bucky pulled it over his hand like a glove and then all the way up his arm until it reached his shoulder. He then had to press down on the top of the sleeve and a magnet engaged around the border which held it firmly in place and prevented it from sliding down.

The sleeve was black in color and made of a padded, spandex-like material. When Tony had asked if Bucky had any requests for the design, he’d had only one: the red star. Tony had commented with “I like your style” and added a red star to the sleeve, exactly the same size and in exactly the same place as on the original arm.

When Tony came in, one day, and announced that this would be his last day working on his arm -- although he failed to mention that Bucky would be moving into his tower soon -- Bucky couldn’t help but feel a little sad. As Tony was leaving for what Bucky thought would be the last time, Bucky quietly thanked him. Tony turned around, gave him a bit of an odd look, nodded uncomfortably and muttered “sure, no problem,” before making his exit.

* * *

Bucky encountered many different doctors and scientists during his stay at the recovery center but he didn’t care for most of them. They saved his life, no doubt, but Bucky didn’t consider that much of a favor. They didn’t treat him like a human being; they treated him like an anomaly, a disease needing to be cured.

He hated that more than anything.

There was one doctor, however, whom Bucky liked. His name was Bruce Banner. Bucky never knew what kind of doctor he actually was because the only time he’d ever asked, Tony had simply waved his hand and said “Don’t worry, he’s not that kind of doctor.” Bucky didn’t know what that meant but he decided to leave it at that.

Bruce didn’t come in very often and never by himself. He was always either with Tony or some other doctor. If it was Tony, they would stand very close to each other, look over Bucky’s vital signs, his cybernetic arm, and various other things while speaking in low voices about things Bucky didn’t understand. If it was someone else, they would stand far away from each other and talk in low voices about things Bucky didn’t understand.

The first time Bucky met him was on one of his low days. He'd just remembered a mission during his time with Hydra that resulted in the death of one politician and her two teenaged daughters. He remembered the flames, the screaming, the blood, but mostly he remembered his own indifference. He remembered walking away from the scene with not a feeling: No regret, no shame, not even a sense of accomplishment.

That memory hurt most of all. He had taken three innocent lives and felt nothing.

I’m broken, he said to himself, as he sat on his bed, staring at his hands, folded in his lap, and he knew it was true. There was nothing anyone could say to make him believe otherwise.

Tony and Bruce came into the room and interrupted his thoughts. Tony was talking loudly and obnoxiously, as usual. Bruce looked at Bucky, with large, soft, understanding eyes, before hitting Tony in the arm and giving him a look that clearly said “be quiet, douchebag.”

Tony seemed to understand well enough and the two of them worked quietly to get all of their equipment set up.

When they were finished, Bruce stood across from Bucky’s bed while Tony tinkered with some of the devices. He gave Bucky a shy look before quietly saying, “It gets better.”

Bucky scoffed, bitterly. “So I’ve heard,” he drawled, uninterested. He was tired of people telling him things like that. They had no goddamn clue what it was like to be in his mind. These people -- nurses, scientists, doctors, specialists -- were only interested in filling the empty spaces with words they thought he wanted to hear.

“It gets worse before it gets better,” Bruce continued, “I know that’s not what you want to hear but --”

“What I want to hear is the truth,” Bucky growled, looking down, refusing to look him in the eye. “I want someone to tell me the truth. I’m broken,” he hissed. “You can fix my arm, maybe, but you sure as hell can’t fix me.” He gritted his teeth.

“I can’t fix you,” Bruce replied, calmly. “because you don’t need to be fixed. You’re not broken. A little rusty, maybe, but that can be repaired. Listen, there are people here who can help you, if you’ll let them. Believe me. I know.” He paused. “I promise you, I know exactly what you’re going through and I can tell you that it does get better. You just have to get through it.”

Bucky looked him in the eye, only for a moment and saw a look there so sincere and genuine, he couldn’t help but believe him.

A week later, after Bruce had visited him several times, Bucky gathered the courage to ask Sarah about him. She told him Bruce had been a patient here, once, and that if anyone could understand what Bucky was going through it would be him. Bucky believed her, because sometimes, when he looked into Bruce’s eyes, he could see something there that he often saw in his own eyes when he looked in the mirror.

Bruce was like him and he was okay. Maybe Bucky could be okay too.

 


	4. Y'all Done Fucked Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short chapter, but I'm planning on the next one being considerably longer (and we'll finally get back to Bucky and Steve's storyline, I promise) so I'll get a head start on that as soon as this is posted!
> 
> Hang with me, guys. xx

Darcy and Clint sit quietly at the bar, each with a half empty glass of wine in hand, while Tony entertains their guests.

“We should probably call off Operation Zebra,” Clint mutters.

“This is all our fault,” Darcy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“Yeah,” he agrees, solemnly.

“I hope Bucky’s okay.” She looks up towards the elevator, as if hoping that Bucky would step out of it and assure everyone that he’s fine.

“Yeah," he frowns and looks down at his glass. "But Nat called in Steve. They'll know what to do."

“I feel like we should do something.”

“Are you kidding?” Clint chokes. “This whole thing is the result of us trying to ‘do something.’”

“I know,” she moans, and rests her forehead in her palm. “I feel awful.”

“Hey, it was a good idea,” Clint says, in an attempt to cheer her up, “but the timing was a little off. And don’t forget this is just as much my fault as it is yours.”

“I didn’t think it would upset him so much.” She looks up. “I'm terrible at this. The last time I tried to set Jane up with a guy, it turned out he was, like, some sort of psycho fish man."

“What?"

"He sliced her favorite blouse with a carrot peeler!"

"A _carrot peeler_?"

"Yeah! It was a really cute blouse, too," she pouts.

“Look," Clint says, trying to get the conversation back on track. "I feel bad too, but we’re gonna make it up to them.”

“How?”

“A gift basket?” He suggests weakly. “I don’t know yet. But we'll think of something."

"Yeah." She reaches for the wine bottle, "but for now I'm gonna need some more of this."

While Clint chokes down a gulp of wine, Natasha comes up behind him.

"Why are you drinking that?" She asks, startling him. "You don't even like wine."

"I'm only drinking it because I hate myself," he replies, jokingly. Secretly, everyone knows that he actually loves the shit out of his stupid self.

"In that case," she says, taking the glass from his hands, "don't mind if I do." She downs the drink in a few gulps and sets it back on the table.

"You're welcome," Clint grumbles. "How's Bucky?"

"He should be fine." She leans her elbow on the bar. "Steve's with him now. I thought he could probably handle it best."

"Good call," he concedes.

"I'm sorry," Darcy speaks up. "If I'd known he would --"

"It's okay," Natasha assures her. "It was bound to happen eventually. Anyway, I'm headed out. Got a call from Fury. Apparently there's rumors of Hydra activity in some small town just south of here. I'm gonna go check it out."

"Yeah?" He responds. "Want me to go with?"

"Nah," she answers. "Should be an easy mission. In-and-out type of thing."

"You always say that."

"And I'm usually right."

"Usually."

She rolls his eyes and gives him a quick kiss before heading out.

"Aww," Darcy coos, "you guys are so cute."

"Shut up."


	5. Closed Doors and Opened Windows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! A long(ish) chapter! This one took me a while because I am an awful procrastinator, but here it is. There were also some glitches while trying to upload because the ao3 editor hates humanity, but I think it's good now.
> 
> P.S. Happy thanksgiving to all you wonderful readers! Eat lots of pie for me :)

Leaning against the door, Bucky pulls his knees in close to his chest, his breathing shallow and quick, panic setting in.

He loves Steve. He hardly needs his memories to know that. He should have figured it out sooner.

 _Love_. There's a word he hasn't had use for in decades.

He can't talk to Steve. Even though he wants to, he knows he can't. Now that the words have formed in his mind, they sit behind a fragile levee at the back of his throat. He fears that if he opens his lips, the words will come tumbling out and flood the room.

 _I_ and _love_ and _you_.

He wants to say it, he wants to scream it, he wants to write it on every wall, paint it in the sky, but he knows he can't. If he could, he would've done it a long time ago.

He feels his emotions bubbling up inside of him, his heart beating fast. He tries to breathe normally, but finds he can't. His cells are on fire and no matter how much oxygen he takes in, he cannot quell the flame. Each inhale is too deep, too much, and entirely too fast. Each exhale is too shallow, too short, not enough.

He knows what this is. It's happened before. A panic attack. He hasn't had one in a long time, but the feeling of being suffocated by his own blinding terror is all too familiar. His breathing is too fast, his thoughts are racing by at a thousand miles an hour: everything is too loud, too much.

He presses his head into his knees and covers his ears with his hands, as if that will block out the chaos in his mind. He wants to cry out but the sound is trapped in his gut, his erratic breathing not allowing anything to escape.

He hears a knock on the door. "Bucky?" He immediately recognizes the voice to be Alexis's. "It's Alexis," she says. "Steve called me and said you're having a hard time."

Through the jumble in his head, Bucky thinks ' _thank god_.' Alexis can help.

He wants to tell her to come in, but he can't get the words out, nor can he muster the energy to move away from the door. His bones are locked in their form, his entire being consumed in irrational panic.

He knows this is irrational, he _knows_ it is, but he can't stop it.

"If it's a panic attack," Alexis tells him, her voice calm and steady, "remember to breathe in for four seconds, hold for seven, and then breathe out for eight."

 _In for four._ He sucks in his breath as evenly as he can manage. _1-2-3-4._

 _Hold for seven_. He presses his lips together and holds his breath. He can feel some of the tension leave his spine. _1-2-3-4-5-6-7_.

 _Out for eight_. He let's go of his breath, steadily, and counts to eight. _1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8_.

"When you exhale," Alexis continues, "visualize all your stress, panic, and fear leaving your body. Panic attacks usually last about fifteen minutes or less. It will be over soon; you can make it. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight," she repeats.

Bucky continues attempting to regulate his breathing. _In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight_. He can feel it working. He feels his muscles relax and his thoughts slow to a more reasonable pace, even though his bloodstream is still pumping fear and panic through his veins.

"I'll be right here on the other side of the door for as long as you need me," Alexis assures him. "I'm not going anywhere."

She stays silent for a minute or so while Bucky continues his breathing technique and tries to regain his hold on reality. His thoughts slow down even further, allowing him to think clearer. Although he's still consumed by anxiety, he has enough rationality to know it will end soon.

"Now," Alexis speaks up, having given him some time, "look around you." Bucky looks up from where his forehead was resting on his knees. "Can you tell me where you are?"

He takes a few more deep breaths before answering her with a shaky, unsure voice. "I'm in my room," he manages to get out. "In the Avengers Tower. In New York City."

"That's right," she replies. "Are you safe?"

He swallows down a wave of panic. _4\. 7. 8._

"I don't know," he answers honestly.

"Take in your settings," she commands, but her voice is soft and gentle enough that Bucky doesn't mind obeying. "Do you see any danger? Any potential threats?"

He gazes around the room while still trying to maintain his steady breathing. He looks at the windows, the bed, the walls to his front, left, and right, but there's nothing alarming or unusual. "No," he responds. "It's clear."

"Good. Can you tell me where you're sitting?"

Bucky knows this technique. It's called 'grounding.' It's where she asks him to tell her about his surroundings so that he can stay planted in reality. "I'm sitting on the floor. The carpet." He runs his fingers through the thick carpet. "With my back to the door."

"Alright," she acknowledges through the door. "Describe what's around you."

His breathing is becoming more normal and the words are easier to get out. "There's, um, a wall to my left and right and on the right wall there's a door which leads to a bathroom that I share with --" His breath catches.

 _Shit_.

He should not have thought about Steve. He tries to maintain his steady respiration as his thoughts are suddenly inundated with memories from Before: cold winter nights, curled up next to Steve, wanting things he should never want, nursing Steve back to health and trying not to acknowledge that each rasping breath could be his last.

What would Steve do if he knew Bucky's true feelings? If he knew all the things he had thought, all the things he wanted?

Bucky starts to hyperventilate again, losing control to panic once again. He clenches his fists and tries to regain his breath, eyes screwed closed.

"Bucky, are you with me?" Alexis's voice drifts through the door, cool and crisp.

 _In for four, hold for seven, out for eight,_ he reminds himself. He allows himself a minute or so to regain his composure.

"I'm here," he rasps.

"Good," she replies. "Now describe what's in front of you."

"Okay," he says slowly, and proceeds to describe to her several objects that are close to him. The panic and fear starts to dissipate and soon he's feeling almost normal. His muscles relax and his mind slows almost to the point of fatigue.

"Can you open the door?" Alexis asks, after he's finished talking.

"Just give me a second," Bucky mutters. "I'm an old man." He heaves himself up and opens the door. Alexis is standing on the other side, wearing casual attire -- a sweater, leggings, and boots -- as opposed to her usual suits and slacks.

"Hi," he greets, feeling slightly embarrassed and awkward.

"Hey," Alexis responds. "How are you doing?" Bucky shrugs. "You wanna talk?"

He does want to talk. He wants to tell her everything. In fact, there's nothing he wants more than to finally share this weight with someone, this weight which has been resting on his shoulders for as far as his memory reaches.

"Yes," he answers, after a moment of thought, but without really thinking. He doesn't know what he wants to say, but he knows he needs to say something.

"Do you, uh, want to come in?" Bucky asks, a little unsure of the situation.

"Better not," she replies. "Because of our counselor-patient relationship, it's important that we set and maintain boundaries. It's nothing personal."

"Of course."

"Maybe one of the conference rooms would be more appropriate," she suggests.

Bucky nods in compliance and they walk to the elevator in only slightly-awkward silence.

Alexis is a tall, solid-bodied woman in her late 30's. She has dark brown skin, warm golden eyes, and dark hair, done into box braids that trail down her back. Usually she has it styled immaculately, but now that it's after usual business hours, the braids hang down, long and loose.

"Sorry that you had to come in so late," Bucky apologizes as they get off the elevator and step onto the conference floor "I know it's after usual hours."

"No need to apologize." They stroll down the hallway towards one of the conference rooms. "When I took this job working for S.H.I.E.L.D, I knew I was agreeing to some crazy hours. This actually isn't the latest I've been called in."

She opens the door to conference room 6 and holds it open for him. He steps through and flips on the lights.

It's a large, mostly empty room, save for a large, square table in the center and the necessary water dispensers in the corners of the room.

Bucky takes a seat in the chair at the head of the table while Alexis gets settled in the one directly to his left.

"Okay," she says, once they're both seated. "Well, to start with, how are you feeling right now?"

He rests his forearms on the table and looks down at them, trying to gather his thoughts. Getting these things started is always the hardest part and he's still getting used to talking about his feelings. "Um, I'm...okay. Better than I was earlier, I guess."

"Any physical pain?"

"No."

"Any anxiety?"

He hesitates. "A little."

"And what about earlier, when you were in your room? Any physical pain"

"Just anxiety," he answers.

"Alright. And do you want to talk about that?"

"Yeah.” He exhales. “It was the usual, I guess. Panic attack and everything. You know.” He’s not telling her the whole story and he knows it, but he can’t shake the feeling that what he’s discovered about himself is something dark and secretive that should never be told to anyone.

“Do you have any idea what brought this on?” She inquires.

Bucky knows exactly what brought it on but he’s terrified to say it. He notices the lack of clipboard and pen in her hands. “You’re not writing any of this down?” He asks.

She shakes her head. “Not today. I just want to talk. Is that okay with you?”

It’s more than okay. If he can muster up the guts to say what he needs to say, he doesn’t want it to be written down on any sort of official record. “Yeah, that’s… good, actually.”

She leans forward a little bit, her fingers laced together and resting in her lap. “So, what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know if I should say it,” he mutters, eyes focused downwards.

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to,” she reminds him, “but if you think it will help you, then you should. Remember what I said about about counselor confidentiality?” He nods. “Nothing you say is gonna leave this room,” she assures.

“Okay.” He exhales. That familiar mantra is running through the back of his mind: _Don’t think it. Don’t say it._ He decides to ignore it. Just this once. “So you remember my resolve that I told you about? The one that’s always running through my mind but I don’t what it means?”

“Yeah,” she nods, “I remember that. It’s something you’re not supposed to say, right?”

“Yeah. But I --” He hesitates. Every fiber of him is telling him to stop. _Don’t think. Don’t say._ “I finally figured out what ‘it’ is. I remembered.”

“Oh?” She prompts, allowing him to disclose the information if he chooses.

“I’m in love with Steve.” The words fall off his lips with such an insistent ease that he’s surprised he’s never uttered them aloud before.

“Oh?” She says again, without showing any surprise, disgust, or any emotion other than genuine interest.

“Is that stupid?” He asks, without really knowing why.

“It’s not stupid,” she affirms.

“But it’s _wrong_ ,” he goes on, without acknowledging what she said. He puts his face in his hands, breathing deeply and trying to make sense of all this bottled up emotion.

“It’s not stupid and it’s not wrong,” she says, forcefully. “Bucky, look at me.” Reluctantly, he obeys. “Tell me, does it feel wrong?”

The truthful answer is, no. Loving Steve is the easiest, most natural thing in the world. But he knows it should feel wrong. It is wrong. Yet, he feels the need to answer honestly. After all, why not? He’s got nothing left to lose. “No,” he mutters, ashamed to say it. He directs his gaze back down to the table.

“Then it probably isn’t wrong,” she reasons. “You’ve been through war. You know what it feels like to do things that are...” she searches for the right phrase, “Morally questionable. So if this feels right, if it feels natural, then it probably is.”

“Is it true that being queer is acceptable now?” He’s been told before that it is, by several people, including Alexis, but it’s such a difficult thing to believe. He has to make sure.

She smiles. “I’m living, breathing proof.”

He furrows his brow. “You’re queer?”

“I’m transgender,” she informs him, with all of her usual confidence.

“You’re -- Oh.” Back at the rehab center, Alexis had told him about transgendered people as well as other gender variations that exist and are starting to be more accepted. “Oh,” he repeats. “I know what that means. You told me. It means you were born male, right?” Alexis nods. “But you didn’t feel male on the inside so you… changed the outside to match the inside.” He looks at her, unsure. “Right?”

“That’s the general idea, yes,” she answers, looking slightly pleased.

“That’s nice,” he says, “that people can do that now.”

“Yeah, it is,” she agrees. “And look at me, I have a good, respectable job, I have friends, a supporting family, a boyfriend. I’m happy. Like I said: the world is changed. You can be who you want.”

His stomach flips at the idea of showing this part of himself to the whole world. “Maybe…”

“People will accept you, if you ever decide to come out. But first you have to accept yourself,” she tells him, earnestly.

Bucky’s insides churn at all of these new prospects and options. He had known they existed for other people in the 21st but he’d never considered that they could exist for him, too.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” she says, “but I think you should think about that.”

“I will.”


	6. Its a Long Way Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It has been waaaayy too long since I last updated. Idk man, life (and writers block) just hit me like a bag full of cement. I am so sorry! 
> 
> Thanks for your patience! See you soon~

After his initial confession about his feelings for Steve, Alexis and Bucky’s conversation is fairly brief. Bucky has come from the inability to say a word of these thoughts to the ability to say almost everything. The transition is sudden and jarring to say that least. He can’t help but be overwhelmed by all the new possibilities that are now open to him. 

 

“Like I said,” Alexis tells him, interrupting his thoughts. “I don’t want you getting too overwhelmed, so, unless there’s anything else you’re dying to get off your chest, I say we wrap this up. Sound good to you?”

 

Bucky nods. “Yeah.” Nothing sounds better right now than to crawl into his bed and put all of these thoughts aside. And, yet, the idea of walking all that way to his room is too much to imagine. For now, he craves nothing more than to just stay here, in this quiet place, until the world stops turning.

 

Alexis gets up from the table. “Then I’ll see you on Wednesday for our usual appointment?”   


 

He does his best to answer normally, even though every word he speaks sticks in the back of his mouth. “Sure thing.” He clears his throat in an attempt to free his speech but it does little good. “I think I’m gonna, uh, stay in here for a little while.” The idea of getting up and going anywhere is incomprehensible and terrifying. 

 

“Okay,” she responds, a certain empathy and understanding in her voice. “I can stay if you need me to. Its no trouble.”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “No. I’m alright. I just need some time to…” he struggles to get the words out, “...think things through.” Alexis had already helped him tremendously but there isn’t much more she can do. There are some things a mind just has to work out on it’s own.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

He meets her eyes and nods, managing a small smile.

 

She smiles back, professionally, but not without compassion. “Alright. Feel free to call if you need anything else.” She turns and walks to the door. "Goodnight," she tells him over her shoulder.

 

"Thank you," he croaks as she reaches for the door handle.

 

She smiles graciously and slips out the door.

* * *

Steve is sitting at the bar, talking absently to Sam and nursing a beer, when his phone rings. He picks it up. It reads:  Call from Dr. Alexis Vanguard.

 

"Its Bucky's therapist," he tells Sam, standing up from the bar. "I'd better get this." He grabs his phone, hurries into the kitchen where its quiet, and manages to answer the phone on the last ring. “Steve Rogers.”

 

“Hi, Steve,” she responds, coolly. “I’m calling to let you know that Bucky is fine. It seems he was experiencing a severe panic attack after an influx of new memories. He’s doing much better now.”

 

Steve exhales, the tension wound in his gut slowly dissipating. “Thank you” is all he can say.

 

“Of course. I’m on my way out now,” she informs him, “Bucky is in conference room 6. He asked for some time alone to think things over. I wouldn’t be worried, but you might want to go check on him if he’s still in there in an hour or so.”

 

“Alright.” He does his best to follow her advice and not be worried, but it doesn’t do much good. 

 

“And Steve?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“He may need extra alone time for a few days or he may not want to be alone at all. Both are perfectly normal reactions to something like this. I know we’ve had this conversation before, but I thought I’d just remind you again that if he needs some space, it’s nothing personal, just part of the recovery process. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

 

Steve exhales and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’ll try.”

 

“Good. Is there anything else I can answer for you?"

 

He hesitates. There should probably be about a million things on his mind, straining to be asked, but he can't think of a thing. “No, that’s okay. Thanks again.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

The line goes dead.

 

He exhales, rests his hands on his hips, and looks down, his insides nervous and jittery for a reason he can’t explain. Through all the emotions, he can’t help but ask himself:  did I cause all this?

* * *

Steve doesn’t stay up with the others that night. He leaves the kitchen and excuses himself to his room.

 

“Jarvis?” he asks, addressing the ceiling: a habit he can’t quite rid himself of.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Let me know in an hour if Bucky hasn’t come back to his room.”

 

“Will do, sir.” 

 

Bucky returns to his room shortly before the hour is up. Steve knows, not only because Jarvis tells him, but because he’d been awake, listening for the sound of Bucky’s door across the hall. 

 


	7. A Fracture From Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight so I just saw Age of Ultron and I'm realizing that a lot of this fic doesn't really fit with the new canon that they established in the new movie so sorry about that.. And I REFUSE to acknowledge Bruce/Natasha. Clintasha for the win!
> 
> Anyway, I know that this fic only follows MCU canon very loosely but I try to keep the characterization as close to the real deal as possible. Just think of this as a slight AU and we're good to go. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! xx

  
  
Bucky wakes up on Sunday morning and wishes he hadn’t. That familiar, suffocating ache weighs on his chest, crushing his every thought with anxiety. Gushing red panic starts to rise in his gut, flushing every inch of him with dread and fear.  
  
He counts to himself for a few minutes and does his best to stay calm until his body realises that everything is fine. Then, the dull melancholy of depression sets in and dominates his thoughts. Every limb in his body is filled with lead, far too heavy to lift. His mind is filled with thick cement, slow, tired, unresponsive.  
  
 _How can I keep going?_ He asks himself, through the haze. A harder question then poses itself in his mind: _How can I stop?_  
  
Briefly, he wonders if it would be easier not to think at all. He quickly puts the question out of his mind; he’s been down that road before and it didn’t take him anywhere good.  
  
 _No,_ he concludes, _better to struggle on with feeling than to feel nothing at all._  
  
With that thought, even though every part of his being begs him to never think nor move again, he wills his body to get up and out of bed. His body, seeming to be an alien entity, entirely separate from his consciousness, follows this command.  
  
He gets into the shower, turning the dial to the highest possible heat setting. The water streams across his back, almost hot enough to burn. Anything for a sensation.  
  
Slowly, the physical feeling of the hot water washing across his skin allows Bucky’s mind and body to reconnect. Although weariness and depression still nags at the corners of his mind, as it almost always does, he starts to feel like himself again -- or, more accurately, he begins to feel like this person he calls himself. Whoever that is.  
  
\---  
  
Forty-five minutes later, Bucky, washed and dressed, exits the Avengers tower and walks into the bright New York sunlight. He strides swiftly down the pavement, blocking out the various voices and noises echoing around him. Although he's wearing a sleeveless shirt, his arm, covered in Tony's protective sleeve, attracts little attention. He passes by people from all walks of life and they don’t give him so much as a second glance.  
  
It’s nice to be invisible sometimes.  
  
He breathes the sharp, thick air in gulps, reveling in the beauty of awareness. He takes in everything as he wanders down the sidewalk. Every sight, every smell, every sensation: they belong to him.  
  
For a few minutes, he’s able to put away all his troubling thoughts. He can drown out all the emptiness with the hustle and bustle of the city. He walks swiftly, allowing the activity to wash everything away. He lets his mind drift off and allows his feet to pull him wherever they want to go. He gives up trying to control these heavy limbs which never want to do what he asks. He has no thought nor care for where he’s going. For now, he’s only along for the ride.  
  
A memory starts to surface from somewhere deep in his mind. An old memory. A good one. He decides to let it in...  
  
\---  
  
 _Bucky spots Steve’s small figure sitting on the pier, gazing down at the water, his elbows resting on his knees. Bucky makes his way over to him and sits down beside him, his feet dangling just inches above the waterline. He doesn’t say anything, but rather waits for Steve to speak when he’s comfortable._  
  
 _“How’d you find me?” Steve rasps, his voice small and wavering._  
  
 _“I followed my feet,” Bucky responds._  
  
 _Steve looks over at him, confused. “Huh?”_  
  
 _Bucky shrugs. “It’s something my ma always says. She says that if you’re missing something you love, it’s only a matter of time until you find it. You just have to follow your feet.”_  
  
 _Steve blushes slightly and looks away. “What’re you talking about?”_  
  
 _“You’re my best friend, Steve,” he replies, sincerely. “I’ll always find you. I’ll follow you anywhere -- to the end of the earth, if I have to. You know that, don’t you?” He leans down, slightly, trying to see his friend’s face. They’re only children._  
  
 _Steve’s gaze remains fixed downwards, but he nods, ever so slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost inaudibly. “I know.”_  
  
 _Bucky places his hands behind himself and leans back, content, but solemn._  
  
 _For a while, the only sounds are the waves, lazily lapping at the shore, the gulls screeching from high above, and the faint sound of voices, drifting in from farther off._  
  
 _Eventually, Steve breaks the silence, with a quiet and melancholy voice, so small that Bucky almost misses it. “Ma’s real sick.”_  
  
 _“I know,” Bucky responds, equally as quietly. He’d already heard the news. “I’m real sorry, Steve.”_  
  
 _“But Ma’s a fighter.” Steve’s voice carries a touch of hopefulness. Bucky would rather die than break it._  
  
 _“You bet she is,” Bucky assures him. A pang of sadness tears through him. Steve’s just a kid. He shouldn’t have to go through this. No one should. But especially not Steve. Little Steve Rogers: so frail, but so strong, filled with more love and passion than men three times his size._  
  
 _Steve looks over to Bucky. “We’ll be okay,” Steve tells him. “All of us. We will.” He nods and looks down, talking more to himself than to Bucky. “I -- I believe that,” he murmurs, but his tone suggests that maybe he doesn’t believe that quite as strongly as he says._  
  
\---  
  
Having drifted off into his thoughts, Bucky stows away this new memory  and finds he's wandered into a part of the city that he's never seen before. The buildings surrounding him are mostly brick apartments and the street is tranquil and quiet.  
  
As he strolls down the sidewalk, Bucky hears the faint sound of boys shouting. He picks up his pace and follows the voices until he comes to an alleyway in between two apartment complexes. In the alleyway, a group of three young boys, kicking and shouting, are taking out their pubescent aggressions on a dark brown dog, who is lying on the ground, unable to get up.  
  
"Hey!" Bucky barks, in his deepest, most intimidating voice: the one he learned as a sergeant in the army. It has the effect he intended; the boys give each other startled glances, before leaving the dog and sprinting off around the corner, behind the apartment buildings. Bucky entertains the idea of following after them, but thinks better of it. They aren’t worth the time or effort.  
  
He walks over to the dog and crouches down next to her. The dog, who appears to be some sort of Labrador mix, has a deep gash running down her rib cage and her leg is lays at an unnatural angle. _Must be broken,_ he concludes.  
  
Quickly, he pulls off his shirt and rips the front side of it in half. He then gently works the ripped shirt around the dogs frail, bony, ribcage and ties it, covering the bleeding wound. Mindful of the wound and her hurt leg, he picks up the dog and carries her to the nearest animal clinic, which he remembers seeing a few days ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been forever since I updated! School, dance, and other activities have had me running around like a crazy person. Plus, my depression and anxiety makes it really difficult for me to motivate myself. But, now that it's summer, expect to see a lot more frequent updates! Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> Love you guys!  
> -Indie.


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